Questioning the Fairytale
by Phantomholdsmyheart2743
Summary: Christine gets some perspective, and begins to question the true meaning of "Happily-ever-after." Three-shot. E/C Fluffy and happy for Valentine's Day.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: All right, we are going to take a trip on the fluffier side, because as much as I love angst; it's almost Valentine's day and our favorite duo should get a bit of uncomplicated happy. This will be a three-shot, and (on my honor) will be complete by Valentine's Day! Review, review, review. Please, otherwise I feel like I'm writing into a void...**

Christine regarded the brush in her hand, silver and weighty, embellished with the figured of the Greek muses. A gift from a dear friend. Erik.

The problem was that she was a child who had been raised on fairytales, ideals, everything clear-cut and black or white. There was no gray. There was a princess, and there was a prince, and there was a villain. She had not been prepared for him. She had been prepared for a happily-ever-after tied with a bow, but not for the depth of missing someone. And now, one night had taken him. It had been two months. How terrible that their parting had come mid-December, before the streets rang with Christmas carols.

Four years of friendship, of ghostly laughter in his silver-spun voice ringing from alcoves and echoing through halls. All the nights she had fallen asleep talking with him, more intimate that the pillow-talk of lovers and all that time—heat sprang to her cheeks. All that time, all those summer nights where she had lain in bed, barely clothed as the Parisian sun refused to give up supremacy to the coolness of the moon. He had seen her, she realized now. Bare, glistening with sweat; perhaps even thrashing in dreamt desire of him.

That revelation, those weeks spent in music, his company. His apologetic air when he revealed himself a mortal man. She had adored learning the minutia of his body language, the colors his eyes seemed to turn with his moods. She had been too afraid to tell him that his mortal body was the subject of her more wanton fantasies. That she woke burning at the thought of his hands. That she replayed his every touch in her mind like a melody rehearsed til it ingrains in the blood. But she had been impulsive. Greedy. Curiosity was her downfall. She had wanted to see all he concealed, and it had cost her everything. His mask was her very own Pandora's Box.

Erik, that tangible angel, that—a sharp rapping shook her from her thoughts.

"Lotte, are you ready to go to dinner?" Raoul called. Christine's hands searched her dressing table for hairpins, which she hurriedly installed.

"Yes, I suppose so." She murmured. Onward to Raoul, her perfect-on-paper prince. As she walked towards the door, she caught a glance of her reflection in the mirror. Erik's mirror. The door to a world that was opposite of all her ideals. She looked pale, flushed. Eyes glistening with a mixture of nostalgia and passion. "Actually…"

"I know that voice, you're cancelling. Again."

It was with immeasurable relief that she leant her forehead against the closed door. "I find myself rather tired today."

A long pause. "Lotte, Christine. I don't think that is all."

"No," A tear slipped down her cheek. "You're right, my friend. It's…"

"Your teacher."

She could almost feel Raoul's hands against hers on the other side of the door, their breath was oddly synchronized, for the first and perhaps final time. "I tried, Raoul. If I could love you, I would. Because you are perfect."

"Oh Christine, we cannot recapture the past, can we?" The hitching rasp in his voice gave away his tears, and she knew that if she opened the door, she would see those pale blue eyes dripping tears as endless as the sea.

"No, I don't suppose we can." She whispered.

"I sail tomorrow morning." She saw his future then. He would come back bearded and ruddy, handsome and strong from sailing. Meet a vivacious creature as available as she herself was now distant. He'd have glorious little blonde children, and all that would be left of her would be the dark stories of the North.

"Goodbye, Raoul."

"Goodbye, Little Lotte." It was nearly a minute before she heard his footsteps walking away.

It was really better this way, a clean break before anything could start. That one night, the confiding kiss on the roof. Easily forgotten innocence. She had been so preoccupied with thoughts of Erik that she hadn't even felt Raoul's lips. How odd to think that she had once loved him with every childish passion of her beating heart.

Now Raoul was a paper doll to be set aside with other childhood things. She slid to the ground, back against the door. She started pulling the pins from her hair, brown strands falling over her eyes. She looked over at the mirror again.

He wasn't there. She knew that. She'd become accustomed to the aura of his eyes on her. The insistent fluidity of sharing breathing space with her mysterious teacher. She missed him. The softness in the silence.

Missed him in a way she hadn't even missed her father, but she supposed that it was because she knew that she could still _see_ Erik in the earthly plane.

In all honesty, she had never been one for the idea of binding yourself so closely to another that death was preferable to going on without them. For all the fairytales, she had lived through enough to ensure she retained a modicum of cynicism. Because the problem of fairytales is assuming the "happily ever after" is a permanent state, when in fact there are many facets to the "after," and not all of them are happy.

Nonetheless, the pain of missing Erik had lately become a living ache. She stopped at least a dozen times a day wanting to tell him something. At the end of most days, she laid in bed, missing their conversations. The worst part was, it was her fault that he was gone.

Because the morning after that night, she had woken to breakfast and Russian tea. A rose by her plate, a clear apology. She had not met his eyes, said anything beyond. "Please take me home."

Four words, and he had played her favorites all night in penitence. Arranged a beautiful breakfast, and gifted her a rose in the middle of December.

She had felt the way that sentence hit him, like a shot to the spine. But the part of her that regretted had seemed so far away. She had not said a word, had not taken his hand when she boarded the gondola, and did not look back when he whispered. "Goodbye, Christine. Forgive me."

Christine closed her eyes again. If she had known the consequence of that. If she had known that those four words would be the last she would hear of him. He had even been silent as the infamous Opera Ghost, no letters, no tricks. In hindsight, she could not remember why she had not spoken.

A sudden noise jarred her. She imagined him behind the mirror, cursing his clumsiness.

"Erik?" She called softly, scrambling to her feet. Hands to the mirror, penitent. More hopeful than a housecat on the prowl. But he did not answer, was not there. Of course not, he would never be heard if he wished to pass unseen. It was the silence that undid her. The stale air of her dressing room, static and oppressive.

She ran out of the room, desperate for air—but more importantly, there was another door. The crisp air of February hit her wet cheeks as she rounded the corner, stumbling on the cobblestones, falling to her knees with a rough crack.

She could almost feel the bruises forming, the knees which would turn purple then green; the wrist that was likely sprained.

"Mademoiselle, are you all right?" A cabbie called. Christine struggled to her feet, aching and cold.

"No, yes, excuse me—"

She ran, boots pounding with heeled clicks to the door at Rue Scribe. She collapsed outside it, lungs ragged with the frosty air. Pounding, pounding on the wood. Knowing he probably couldn't hear. "Please, Erik! Erik, forgive me."

"Ma petite?" That voice, spearing through her. She scrambled to her feet and turned around. There, in the twilight, holding a paper bag overflowing with groceries was Erik. He set down his shopping, and tentatively offered his beautiful hand.

The relief in her was a tirade of fire and she threw her bruised body past his offered hand and into his arms, burying her face in his chest. "I missed you, I missed you, I missed you."

"You're bleeding." His voice was sharp, but the stroke of his thumb was delicate against her palm. "Did anyone hurt you?" She shook her head, taking every inch of him in. The curve of his lips, half hidden by the mask. The gauntness of his tall frame, the scent of him. Like a library. Like warm nights in front of a fire. Those sonnet-inspiring eyes.

She took his hand in hers, kissed the expanse of his gorgeous fingers. "Forgive me."

"My dear," A hitched breath. "You don't know what you are doing—"

"Actually, Erik, for the first time I know exactly what I'm doing. Come with me." She pulled him to the front of the building, to a cab. Pushed him inside, told the startled driver to go: it didn't matter where.

Once the carriage started moving, she finally looked at him. He regarded her with an odd glint in his honey-colored eyes. She still held his hand. Despite his air of confidence, she could almost feel his blood reaching for hers.

"I need you to listen to me or I'll lose my courage." She felt rather than saw his agreement.

She let go of his hand, bit her lip nervously. Everything seemed to spill out of her at once. "I was going to have dinner—and it—Raoul. He doesn't understand—I mean really he has more patience than anyone—but you're _you _so naturally I kept cancelling."

She paused, and observed the new stiffness that had overtaken his frame.

"What I'm attempting to say, Erik, is that I apologize for taking your mask."

"I apologize that you were subject not only to my monstrous features, but also the victim of my temper."

"You're not monstrous." She whispered. "There's a lot about you that is beautiful—"

A sharp bark of laughter assaulted her ears. "My dear, clearly you have gone mad. Perhaps you've hit your head." He examined her with a physician's focus.

"I didn't hit my head, Erik." Christine growled, fisting her hands in her gown.

"Then pray tell, mademoiselle," Erik sardonically responded, "What qualities of this tortured frame so enchant you?"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: My lovelies, it gets a little closer to some M-rated content in this chapter. Please let me know what you think! We're underway now. It may end up being a four chapter rather than a three! Thank you for the reviews! Remember, the more reviews the happier the author!**

Christine let out a breath. Oh, he was obstinate. A simple list would never do. "When we first met, you told me that you were an angel. I know it wasn't true, but you were better than an angel. Erik, you believed in me when I had no one. You listened when I felt like my voice didn't matter. You were my solace in a strange city. My protector in the dark."

She moved to sit beside him, and she could feel his leg tense through her skirts. "My friend." The clip-clop of horse hooves and carriage wheels. He regarded her with a strange glint in his eyes, turning away so that the unmasked side of his face was hidden in the shadows. She hummed nervously, he had a way of making her feel simultaneously foolish and safe. She wanted always to be closer, but found herself trapped by her natural tendency to overthink her instincts.

They sat silently. Erik's slow breathing a comfort beside her. She wasn't through explaining, but took a moment to collect herself. To allow him to be accustomed to their new proximity. His long fingers rapped in staccato against his knees. He unraveled her. They knew each other so well. Thoughts and stories. Voices. Memories. Shared moments in his home and in the Opera House. With so much history between them, why was it so hard for her to confess that his absence from her was intolerable and full of anguish. Why should propriety stay her from clinging to him, from whispering away the secrets of her desire? Beginning at the beginning, then. That night.

"I don't know what came over me that night, Erik. There was just something about all the time we had spent together, and the music. It seemed to go right through me, to my very soul. I felt bare, almost undressed to your gaze." She stopped, the words that seemed to tumble from her were almost foreign in their candor. Too much honesty escaping her unbidden. She felt exposed now, as she remembered that twisting melody. Aching in its tenderness, indecent in its composition. It was like blood running through a bowl of water, desire painting her red. She shuddered, remembering the way his shoulders swayed as he played, the long span of his fingers coaxing the music from his piano. The thrashing of her legs beneath her sheets as she woke to its power, the haze in which she had approached him. The heat of the fire, the way his sleeves had been rolled up, his collar unbuttoned.

She had been at his home for two weeks, two weeks of getting to know him after her triumph. They read the reviews at breakfast, drank tea, and sang. Music, always music. His nuances and habits. The varying intensity of his gaze. Alone with Erik, she had ample time to consider the effect he had upon her. Had grown to realize that those years of wanting now had a face, and she longed to see it. Down in the dark, she had catalogued every innocent touch and brush of hands. She felt things that she was afraid of, and had no voice to speak them.

"I wanted to see you." He had turned away again, and timidly she reached to touch his shoulder. "Erik…, I wanted to see you. Your anger frightened me. It was as though I was shaken from a dream. Your music, oh Erik, your music." He must have heard the reverence in her voice, for he turned towards her and took her hand in his own. She squeezed tightly. "I wanted to see if it mattered what you looked like underneath." She whispered. "It didn't."

It hadn't. How could it? Why would it matter about that marred face, etched into her memory. Those malformed lips, the angry, twisted flesh of his cheek. The mottled sheen of his forehead. But those eyes, so sad and golden. When he had begun to yell, she had not heard him. She felt so very far away as she stared, sitting on her hands so she would not reach out to learn the texture of his flesh. His eyelashes were white, on the marred side, and she longed to feel them feather over her in butterfly kisses. That seam dividing ravaged and perfect, the duality of his face. She realized with a clarity that the fact that she had still thought him handsome after the unmasking was the reason she had been unable to face him in the morning. She'd been unable to discern her next move.

"Surely you know, Erik, you must know how much you mean to me." She stroked his unmasked cheek. "How much I missed you."

"Oh Christine," She felt his penitent lips against her palm, and trembled. A soft sound was pulled from her at the touch of his lips. Erik's eyes latched on her with a new predatory intent. Fascinated, as if to dare her, he kissed the inside of her wrist. She was suddenly aware of how very alone they were. Her knees trembled, and she felt the blood rush to her cheeks.

"Interesting," He was the maestro again. "What makes you tremble so?"

He knew, he must know. She couldn't continue in this vein, thinking of all the stories that the ballet rats had told her about the anonymous pleasures that were to be had in closed carriages circling the park at night. It made her think of the texture of his lips on hers. It made her think of the many ways one person could love another. She began to realize that she had missed too Erik's touch, before confined to soft corrections to posture and the grasp of hands. She began to realize the possibilities of intimacy. She cleared her throat. "I like your hands." It came out in a squeak.

Erik blinked, letting go of her hand to stare at his own. She mourned the contact.

"I like your eyes. They look like honey. I like how tall you are. I like the way you tell stories, and I like your voice. I like how you always protect me. I like your smile, when I get to see it. I like your thick, dark hair. I like _you_."

"Angel," Erik moaned, daring to stroke an errant curl that rested on her shoulder. "You are too good for me, for this world." They were so very close, the heat of their thighs, side by side. She found herself leaning into him, breath hitching. Chests nearly together as she leaned.

"Neither of us are angels, Erik. I was glad. That you were a man. It meant that I hadn't been…wanting something that I could never have. Something an angel couldn't give me" He was strangely silent, for Erik. Her maestro, the man who always had something to say. He moved towards her, so impossibly close that they shared breath. Those golden eyes bright and piercing. His beautiful hands cupping her face, and she found herself tilting her chin upwards, hoping that he would kiss her.

He merely stroked her cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs. Her lips parted and he groaned.

"Christine, you are playing with fire." He warned, fingers combing through her hair with growing confidence. The strangeness of this evening overtook him. He believed every word that she spoke, a far cry from his usual insecurities. She had sought him out, she had cried. His dear Christine, his sweet songbird. Muse and love. She must care for him. If he had known how she had missed him—

"Maybe I like fire." She countered, very surprised at the way her hands had curled into fistfuls of his lapels. Very surprised that the throb of her sprained wrist had been replaced with a stronger ache.

Erik murmured a phrase in a language she could not understand, sliding his gorgeous hands down her back. "I believe you mean that." He wondered, new realization dawning in his eyes. New tension seeping into the space between them.

"We've known each other too long to pretend." Christine's practical side was horrified at her behavior, but the vast majority of her heart, mind, and body overruled her propriety and she found herself sating her baser instincts by throwing her arms around Erik's neck, and burying her fingers in the hair at his nape. He was so much taller than she, and she found herself practically in his lap. Head tucked on his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him, feeling the jump of his pulse.

"Christine, you do not know what your presence does to me." A sudden jolt of the carriage threw them even closer. She wished her legs free of the confines of her many layers, as she half stood, half leaned against him. She had a sudden, insistent notion to straddle him as one does a horse. She could feel an unfamiliar hardness against her, and blushed.

"Erik, I would very much like to find out." Slowly, oh so slowly, she touched her perfect lips to his. The gentlest of kisses, innocent for the energy between them. Erik, to his extreme embarrassment found himself to be fully aroused, mildly tearful, and ecstatic in his happiness all at once. They grinned stupidly at each other for a moment then lunged together, kissing with an increasing passion. A soft coo left Christine, and Erik slipped his tongue between her lips, finding his nirvana.

A sharp knock startled them apart, Christine springing back to the bench opposite like a startled wildcat.

"It's late. I have a wife to get home to." Their cabbie hollered, "I've been officially off-duty for the past half an hour. You two have been at it long enough. Listen, I'll drop you anywhere you want but I can't keep driving in a circle regardless of your stamina. The horses are tired, I'm tired. I don't know and I don't care what you two are doing, but monsieur—wrap it up!"

Christine looked at Erik, his unmasked side and the tips of his ears were red as La Carlotta's garish lipstick. He stared at her, at the door, and then discreetly flicked his eyes downward. She followed his gaze, and briefly registered sizable bulge in his trousers before he crossed his legs with as much dignity as he could muster, and she looked politely away flushed and smiling.

"The Opera Populaire!" Erik growled, attempting to smooth his dark hair into a semblance of order. It was the most mussed she had ever seen him, and Christine shook with silent laughter at the thought of anyone seeing the impeccable Opera Ghost so tousled. The carriage lurched into action, and she slipped off the bench. Before she could make a sound, Erik caught her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her onto his lap. She felt his chest reverberate as he said.

"Careful my dear, we wouldn't want you to fall."

He kissed her neck, and she suddenly she found that she had little cause for laughing anymore.

**A/N: THEY KISSED! I want thoughts, reactions-tell me what you think!**


	3. Chapter 3

It was uncanny to be carried by him now, through the tunnels of the Opera House. They had stumbled out of the carriage together flushed and giggling, running away holding hands after Erik tossed their cabbie a bag of coins. It was snowing lightly as they approached Rue Scribe door, and Christine shivered as she caught the damp flakes on her tongue. Watched them swirl in tiny cyclones from the heavens. The night seemed incandescent in the glow of the streetlamps, and she watched Erik's slender back as he unlocked the door.

If anyone had told her how her life was to turn out, an orphaned soprano protected by a tangible angel, she would have laughed. But now, she couldn't imagine a greater felicity than she now experienced. The streets were empty, the lamps glowing, illuminating the white of the snow. Paris was a miracle tonight.

"Erik, come here with me." He awkwardly complied, seeming strangely disoriented in the open air even after the intimacy of the enclosed carriage. They stood together.

"Look up." She said, "Now listen."

"I hear nothing."

"Paris is asleep. Right now, like this…" She took his arm. "The world is ours."

"You are a marvel. Where do you get such lovely notions? You are light incarnate."

"My mother. One night she woke me to see the snow. It's one of the only things I remember. It was so quiet, like the world was a pillow."

Erik brushed a snowflake from her cheek. "What a pleasure to share such a memory." He could almost see it, the idyllic cottage in the snow. Trees surrounding it like an embrace, and Christine standing on the stoop, with a graceful woman with Christine's smile gesturing to the wideness of the world.

"I feel closest to her when it snows. She would have loved you. She used to sing for me, sometimes. She and my father both would have sold their souls for the perfect melody."

He squeezed her hand. "Oh Christine, you are the only melody worth the loss of a soul."

That was when she should have said that she loved him, for any doubt in her heart was thrown from her with his words. But her mind would not let her speak. Of course, she knew that Erik loved her. She knew that deep in her soul, the way she knew the notes of the scale. The problem was; he had never _spoken_ his love. She really was as careful as he; perhaps even more so. It was only that she had lost so much, and had only recently gotten her Erik back. Her Erik! She had always been possessive in love, a trait she saw mirrored in Erik; one of the things that had both frightened and allured her. They were the same. Two sides of the same soul.

Before she had time to decide one way or the other about speaking the three words that would shape their futures, he had swept her into his arms, and carried her into the dark. He cited the darkness in the tunnels as his impetuous for such behavior, but she had no objection to an activity that allowed her to hear his heart beat a little faster at their proximity.

They were silent in the tunnels. Erik was focused and careful. She remembered full well the amount of traps that he had set on the way to his home. He had tried to explain the way to her once, but she had given up understanding. Instead he had escorted her, walking beside her each way.

Oh, how he had kissed her! She smiled into his chest, thinking of the way that he had captured her lips, his hands in her hair. He had remained a gentleman, declining to let his hands slip either above or below her waist, unless it be to caress her hair. She felt that it was merely the knowledge of the cabbie coupled with respect for her that had kept him from crushing her to him. He was so careful, so tender. Polite, but the way he had begun to kiss her before they had been interrupted: that told a different story. She was no innocent, she had seen lovers in the dark; in moments of weakness she had learned the curves of her body. Thinking of the angel voice in the dark. He wanted her. And she wanted…

Erik and his beautiful hands caressing her. How forward she had been! She wondered if he knew how he affected her. What he would think of her inclination to mount him, legs astride. It seemed like something that Sorelli would do with one of her many patrons. She pushed her wanton thoughts aside. In the distance she could see the faint glow of the lake.

When they reached the lake he set her down gently, arms lingering longer than they should. She boarded the vessel, reclining at the prow amidst the many cushions. He maneuvered the boat so smoothly that the glassiness of the water was almost unbroken. He was so majestic, so very tall. So impeccably well-dressed and mysterious. She thought of all the novels she had read, full of scandal and possession. Imagined Erik, masked and imposing within the pages of a gothic romance. She would be waiting for him in his chambers, pale and dressed in the lightest of cloths. He'd seize her in his arms and—

"You look flushed, ma petite."

"What? Oh. I'm fine. Really, Erik." She blinked away the image of Erik ravishing her upon a chaise. No wonder that the joys of the flesh were regarded as sinful; a single taste of his lips, a few moments of his touch and she was effectively rendered incapable of rational thoughts!

"When we get home I'm getting you out of those wet clothes." Seemingly hearing the implications of his innocent statement, he flushed. Christine was powerless to resist the temptation to half-quip.

"I am quite willing." Erik nearly dropped the pole, but steadied himself.

"Christine, I would never intimate such a thing. Regardless of our relationship, that sort of intimacy with one of my formation can be seen as nothing more than abhorrent." He stated it in such a matter-of-fact manner that her heart broke a little. A man like Erik, a man who held such passions. Who felt so deeply that it spilled out in melodies that made her ache.

"Then we are at an impasse. Because I strongly disagree." Christine blinked, surprised by the vehemence of her opinions once again. But she had done a lot of growing up over the past few years. She certainly would not be denied Erik.

"To enjoy the company of a monster is different than bedding one." Erik said conversationally. "You have seen my face, and turned away. I would not force the horrors of my body upon you as well."

"That's not fair. I would gladly look upon your face again. Your mask rather gets in the way." She gestured to the swollen redness above her lip. His lips twitched, but the penitence in his voice was audible.

"Forgive me. I was overcome."

"You weren't the only one—gosh, if you knew some of the dreadful things I was thinking." There it was, the unfamiliar nerves, the need to chatter to fill the silence. But she was being indelicate, and they still had so much to discuss. And she loved him.

"I would very much like to hear sometimes." He whispered in his mellifluous voice, startling her. She could imagine his reaction, the way his skin would flush, the convulsive grip of his hands upon his knees.

The boat reached the opposite shore, and he tied it to the dock. Gathering the ounce of courage that remained within her, Christine blurted, "I must be frank, Erik. Women desire physical intimacy as well."

"There is a difference between intimacy and—"

"Denying the pleasure of a lover is not love at all." She took his offered hand, and stepped from the boat.

"Is that what we are? Lovers?" He regarded her with a calculated vagueness, but she felt his hand trembling.

She was unused to seeing him like this, but knowing that any hesitation on her part would be misinterpreted as doubt looked him squarely in the eyes. "It would be founded on genuine affection. Love. But I refuse to continue this relationship any further should you intend to…keep us apart." His eyes flashed. They were standing very close.

"Could you love such a creature?"

"I could love a _man_." Both his hands in her own, those long and beautiful hands. They were warmer than hers. Unusual. "You are a man, Erik. A wonderful—albeit temperamental—man." She searched her mind for more, but the final concession of her new-discovered love stayed jammed in her throat.

"Christine, you never cease to surprise me."

They had been milling by the shore, but now he tugged her towards the house, gently. Although the walk was not far, a hundred feet at most, he slipped out of his overcoat and laid it around her shoulders. His warmth encased her.

His house was bright. He had explained to her that first night its many innovations: electric light; running bath water; a water closet. Each room was different and spectacular, the whole house shouting Erik's genius and style. The strange mix of east and west, the flavor of the orient from those unspoken years in Persia. He would not tell her, but she suspected he had killed from the tension in his body, the sudden edge that took hold of his usually graceful physicality. But tonight was not the night to speak of such things.

He had left her to stoke the fires. She slipped out of her shoes. It would not do to track sand and mud all over his glorious carpets. She felt mildly wanton as she pattered down the hall to the living room her silk stockings peeping past her hem with every step. His overcoat was still wrapped around her shoulders when she leant against the doorway watching as her maestro poked at the embers, fanning them gently.

He was in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. Tailcoat carefully laid over the very chaise that had featured in her fantasies. He reached for some firewood. For the first time she saw his forearms, crisscrossed with scars. She knew what that meant. A girl in the corps had once been beaten by a patron, and when she sobbed out her story it had been her arms that had been sacrificed in the pursuit of protecting her face. A cry was torn from her lips. Erik tugged his sleeves down hurriedly.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to distress you." He said formally. "Should you wish to return, or retire I will not chastise you." He seemed confused when instead of running, she stepped closer.

"Christine, those scars are merely the beginning of the horror." Closer yet.

"I would never insist that you view them, or any others. I assure you I am not searching for pity."

She sank to her knees. "May I?"

He nodded his assent, appraising her. Christine pushed the sleeve up his arm, and trailed her fingertips over the healed wounds. Twisted and thick, some upraised burn marks like strawberries amidst a garden of silver scars. Poor Erik. But no. She pushed her empathy away, lest it bring tears, and focused on him. He twitched beneath her fingers, and she could not resist the addition of lips to her ministrations, dragging them down his scars until he shuddered. She didn't ask how he had gotten his scars. All that mattered was that he was beside her now, that he had survived.

She cupped his face in her hands, stroking the coolness of his mask and his skin with equal care. He covered her hands with his.

"I don't pity you. Let me prove it." He knew what she was asking of him.

"One last kiss." He begged.

"After." She promised. He abruptly gathered her up so that they were flush together. He hugged her fiercely, like a leaving soldier afraid to die with things unsaid. She clutched him with equal fervor, relishing the planes of his body. Breath shaking.

"You must know. Christine, you must know. I love you." He released her quickly, and with a shudder, he undid the ribbon that held his mask in place. He held it there, until she replaced his hand with her own. She looked directly into his eyes, waiting for the stillness to leave him. Waiting for a breath. At last he seemed to relax, and it was only then that she reached to remove his mask. He closed his eyes, pressing desperate kisses to her lips. Waiting for a scream, the clatter of his mask upon the floor. "Can I touch you?" She whispered. His face was exactly as she had recalled it. Marred and misshapen, but not a corpse. Erik was undeniably alive, and the ruin of half his face could not change the fact that she loved him.

"You need never ask. I am yours, Christine."

"Then please, look at me."

His opening eyes were the rising sun. She cupped his cheek, exploring the texture. Brushing her thumb over the curve of his lip. He moaned. That long body of his shaking with emotion.

"No one has ever touched my face with kindness."

"_My_ Erik shall never be mistreated again." And she pressed a kiss to his marred cheek, marveling at the softness of the twisted flesh. She could feel his desire to join their mouths, and eagerly hung upon him with upturned lips. But he did not kiss her. Only regarded her curiously.

"You claim me?" He wrapped his arms around her. "You desire to keep this aberration? To let this body worship you?"

"I desire _you_. I desire that we are not parted, and I desire that you kiss me. I desire that we make music together, and I desire that you take me as your _true_ wife; most of all I desire you to be my first and last sight every day." She responded, flushing. Erik growled deep in his chest "Tomorrow is the feast of St. Valentine. I would like to spend it with you."

"That is a day to spend with those you love."

"Yes," Christine leveled her gaze, "It is. I love you, Erik. Now please, kiss me."

He kissed her, and felt her smile on his lips. She claimed him unmasked, and Erik decided that the future held in this kiss was the greatest gift a man could receive. Christine had her angel in her arms, the fairytale she could have never predicted. As they kissed, Erik read the melodies to come in her quickening heart. A lifetime of music. A very happy valentine's indeed.

**A/N: And that is that. Unless the reviewers desire another chapter with a little more love and a lot more Valentine's fun... Let me know, either way!**


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